


Imperfection

by veryloyalveryquickly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryloyalveryquickly/pseuds/veryloyalveryquickly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is injured whilst on a case, and Sherlock meets Harriet Watson, and discovers something that changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfection

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Of course, I own nothing. All belongs to the perfection that is ACD, Moffat and Gatiss.
> 
> Author's note: I'm moving over my favourite work from fanfiction.net. This was written for fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's competition on Tumblr, and takes place before the Reichenbach Fall. I'm new to this site, so let me know if I'm doing it wrong!

**_ Imperfection _ **

Sherlock looked down at John's face, illuminated by the harsh glare of artificial light. His grey eyes scanned the sleeping man's face, observing and cataloguing every wrinkle, mark and blemish. In his imperfection, John was perfect. As Sherlock continued to gaze at his friend, he wondered how such a seemingly ordinary man had managed to do something so extraordinary; he had saved Sherlock from himself. Before he met John, Sherlock was on the path of self-destruction. Everyone could see it happening, even Sherlock himself, but he did not care. After all, he had nothing to live for, nothing to leave behind. Then John Watson entered his life, and suddenly, Sherlock was reacquainted with a whole spectrum of emotions; fear, concern, worry, happiness, surprise, love.

_Love._  That had been unexpected, but then again, everything about John was unexpected. The way he stayed, when so many others would have left. The way he cared for Sherlock, when even his own parents had turned their backs on him. The way he continued to smile, despite the horrors and the danger Sherlock constantly exposed him to. Sherlock loved John, and yet John could never love Sherlock in return. After all, who would love an asexual, sociopathic detective?

Asexual, sociopath... lies, invented to protect himself from being hurt by others. He hadn't realised John would be any different from the rest of humanity, but he was, and it was too late. John believed the lies, and though Sherlock knew John did care for him, he would never return those feelings. Instead, Sherlock tried to content himself with being John's colleague, flatmate, friend, nothing more. It was not what his heart yearned for, but it was enough.

Now, John stirred, and hazel eyes fluttered open slowly. When their gaze fell upon Sherlock, his mouth stretched into a warm smile. "Hello."

Sherlock's mouth felt unnaturally dry. "Hello." A pause. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," John replied, wincing slightly as he pulled himself into a sitting position. "I know it's probably the drugs messing with my memory, but could you explain why I'm in hospital, and why my right leg feels like it's on fire?"

Sherlock stared at John, a frown marring his features. He chose his words carefully, so as not to cause any unnecessary panic or fear. "You were shot, John. Don't you remember?"

John looked confused as he shook his head slowly. "No, I don't remember." His eyes flickered from Sherlock's face to the sheets covering his leg. A look of fear flashed across his face, though he drew a deep calming breath and exhaled shakily, determined not to let hysteria get the better of him. "How bad is it?" When Sherlock didn't answer, he asked again, in a commanding voice. "How bad is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "The wound in your thigh is merely a flesh wound, though you lost a lot of blood," he deadpanned. "You needed stitches and a blood transfusion, but I'm told that you should recover quickly, with no serious long-term physical effects."

John slumped against the pillows in obvious relief. "Thank God for that." Sherlock knew John was thinking of his psychosomatic limp, and was silently thankful that John would not have to go through that again. It was at that moment they heard the commotion outside, and John's head snapped towards the door instantly, as did Sherlock's. John paled further as he recognised a familiar voice, and turned to Sherlock with fearful eyes. "It's Harry."

Sherlock understood the problem; despite her many promises, Harry was still an alcoholic, and the disturbance outside suggested that she was drunk. He rose to his feet in one smooth motion. "I think it's time I met your sister." John's eyes widened with alarm, but Sherlock laid a placating hand on his shoulder. "Trust me."

John hesitated for a split second before he gave a small nod. "Be careful. Harry gets aggressive when she's drunk." Sherlock dismissed the warning with a wave of the hand.

"I've faced Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind on the face of the Earth and I'm still here. I think I can handle your sister." He moved towards the door, and pulled it open, stepping out into the harshly lit corridor.

"You'd be surprised," he heard John murmur as the door closed behind him. He drifted towards the source of the shouting, and as he rounded the corner he saw a young woman engaging in a heated discussion with a security guard. She was smaller than average, with sandy hair and lightly tanned skin. Harriet Watson.

"Hello, Harry," Sherlock said coolly as he approached. Harry's whole body tensed, and as she turned slowly to face the detective, Sherlock saw familiar hazel eyes, glistening with angry tears.

"You," she hissed, and Sherlock could smell the alcohol on her breath from where he stood. In an instant, she had leapt forward and landed a hard punch to Sherlock's lower jaw, sending him sprawling backwards to the floor. "It's your fault my brother's in here," she spat venomously, her voice slightly slurred, and her words felt like a knife to the detective's heart. "He loves you, and how do you return those feelings? By leading him into danger and almost getting him killed, that's how." Sherlock recoiled on the floor as each word hit him, harder than a fist to the jaw ever could. He did not look up as the security guard seized Harry by the upper arm firmly and began to drag her towards the door. She continued to scream accusations as she was led away. "You don't care at all! One of these days, he'll be killed, killed for loving you!"

Sherlock kept his eyes shut until the sound of Harry's yelling had completely faded. When he opened them, a nurse was crouched beside him with an expression of concern. "Are you okay sir?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock clambered to his feet in an unnaturally clumsy manner.

"Are you sure? I should get a doctor to check you out."

"I said I'm fine." The nurse didn't look convinced, but when Sherlock shot her a defiant look, she huffed and scurried away down the corridor. Sherlock returned to John's room, where the injured man was waiting for him, worry etched upon his face. When he saw the angry red mark on Sherlock's jaw, he gasped.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock feigned ignorance. "What? Oh, this? It's nothing."

"Get over here now," John demanded in a tone that brooked no argument, and Sherlock found himself complying. He sat down in the hard plastic chair next to the hospital bed and allowed John to examine his jaw. Warm, soft fingers brushed against his skin as John leaned forward, gently applying pressure to make Sherlock turn his head to the side. He felt John's hot breath tickling his skin, and John's gentle touch sent warm shivers down his spine. John was murmuring under his breath as he probed the injury. "She really got you, didn't she? I did warn you."

Sherlock allowed his thoughts the drift back to Harry's words.  _He loves you._  Could it be true? Did John love him? He had never allowed himself to fall into the delusion that John could ever love him. Now, he turned his head and looked into John's eyes.  _Dilated pupils._  John was still talking, and Sherlock forced himself to listen over the sound of his own heart hammering of his chest.

"Did you bite you cheek when she hit you? Are you bleeding? Does it-"

Sherlock leant forward and captured John's mouth in a kiss, cutting off his speech. For a moment, John remained frozen, and Sherlock knew he'd made a big mistake. He'd misread the signs. He'd ruined everything. His heart dropped to his stomach, and he was about to pull away when he felt John respond, moving his lips and deepening the kiss. John's lips were soft and supple, just as Sherlock had known they would be. Sherlock moved closer, and John cupped Sherlock's jaw, his thumb stroking tenderly over the bruise. A cautious tongue slipped into Sherlock's mouth, gingerly exploring, and Sherlock groaned with pleasure. After a few long minutes, they broke apart, wide-eyed and breathless. John looked stunned.

"Well, there's one way of checking," he stammered. "Everything seems fine. I mean, more than fine. It's good, it's really good." John's pupils were blown wide with amazement and exhilaration. "What happened? Why now?"

Sherlock leaned forward until their foreheads were almost touching, resting one long hand on John's rough, unshaven cheek. "I love you, John Watson." John's breath caught in his throat, and he closed the distance between them, resting his skull against Sherlock's as the detective continued to speak. "I never thought you could feel the same way. I didn't know."

John exhaled softly. "I love you too, you big idiot."

Sherlock looked into John's bright eyes, and John stared straight back at him. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For this. For you being here. It's my fault."

"Don't you dare." John's hands came up to bury themselves in the mass of dark curls, and he pulled Sherlock even closer. "Don't you dare say that. I chose this life, and I wouldn't have it any other way." Sherlock smiled then, a true smile that lit up the room and spread warmth through John's body.

"I love you, John."

John chuckled. "I know."

In years to come, when Sherlock thought back to their first kiss, he would always remember how it wasn't flawless, not by any means, but that didn't matter. In its imperfection, it was perfect.


End file.
